Page 65 of Cold Ignition

“Three o’clock,” Victor’s voice cut in quietly. “Black SUV. Tinted windows with two inside, one outside. Not here for the show.”

Keanu’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel. He didn’t turn his head. Didn’t break the illusion.

“I see them,” he said.

Rangi’s voice slipped into the comms next—warmer, edged with something that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath it.

“I still hate that helmet,” he muttered.

Keanu’s mouth almost twitched.

“Focus,” Alexios said calmly.

There it was. Balance.

Keanu exhaled slowly, letting the rhythm of their voices anchor him without pulling him out of character.

The starter stepped forward. Hands raised. Engines climbed in response—raw, aggressive, barely contained. Keanu rolled his shoulders once, settling deeper into the seat. This part was muscle memory.

The lights snapped—and the world dropped away. He didn’t accelerate. Not immediately. That was the difference. While the others launched forward, tires screaming, engines roaring, Keanu waited a fraction of a second longer.

Then moved.

The car surged like it had been held back on a leash. Not reckless speed—precision speed. He slipped between two cars within the first hundred meters, threading the gap like it had been designed for him. The road ahead fractured into sharp turns and uneven stretches, debris scattered just enough to punish hesitation.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t overcorrect. Didn’t fight the car. He became part of it.

“Jesus,” Drew muttered over comms. “He’s not even pushing it.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Alexios replied.

Keanu’s focus narrowed further. One car ahead. Another trying to edge him from the side. He let it happen just for a second. Then adjusted—subtle, deliberate—using their momentum against them, slipping through the opening like a ghost.

No contact. No wasted motion. Just gone.

“Contact left—watch it,” Victor warned.

Keanu had already seen it. A driver too aggressive, too eager to prove something. He shifted gears, dropped slightly, then surged forward again—timed perfectly to avoid the impact when the other car clipped debris and spun out.

He didn’t look back. Ahi never did.

The final stretch opened ahead—longer, cleaner, built for speed. Now he pushed. The engine roared in response, the car responding like it had been waiting for permission. The flames along the side blurred into streaks of red as he accelerated, closing the last of the distance between him and the lead.

Then overtaking it like it wasn’t even there.

Silence hit the comms for a split second.

Then—

“Fuck yeah,” Rangi breathed.

Keanu crossed the line first. But that wasn’t the win. The win came after. When the engines died down. When the crowd noise shifted—not louder, but sharper.

Keanu rolled the car to a controlled stop, cutting the engine with deliberate calm. And waited. Because this part—this was the real race. A man approached from the edge of the crowd.

He wasn’t dressed like the others. Cleaner. Sharper. Eyes too aware.

His entire demeanor and manner screamed handler.